Jacinto Nights
by gnarled
Summary: What is it like, at night, in humanity's last remaining bastion of civilization? Is it a rough bar fight under red lights, all adrenaline and jealousy, or a loft apartment, soft light filtering in from the imulsion-powered lamps outside? Marcus/Anya
1. Chapter 1

Okay. I'll make this short and sweet. This story is rated **M** for a reason, when it really should be **NC-17**.  
Which means it includes all of three things:  
1. Crude/Vulgar Language  
2. Violence  
3. Gratuitous Sex Scenes.

You have been warned.

* * *

The bar was dingy, nasty, and right up his alley.

He'd been here before, on nights where he'd had nothing better to do but drink, nights when the nightmares, asleep or waking, wouldn't leave him alone. Here was where he spent the nights he couldn't spend with Dom or anyone else for that matter, because, frankly, he didn't like anyone else. Not like the drinks did anything anyway. As he pushed open the grimy door made of fractured wood, looking upwards at the red-backlit sign, he remembered how he had learned long ago that it was nearly impossible to get a buzz, from even the hardest shit the bartender could throw at you. Whatever those nuts at Command put in those ration bars, it wasn't just protein; a Gear's metabolism was so fast that the alcohol would just burn up, barely even hit the stomach. Perhaps it was a fail-safe-- no more drunken bar fights and bad PR from the stupid grunts.

_Hrm. Stupid grunts. _

Walking up to the bar was easy, he felt like he had done it a thousand times. Low lights gave the place a red tint, probably to make the bloodstains in the wood floors and tables less noticeable. The planks creaked under his boots, hell, he probably weighed more than five normal guys put together. Some heads turned as he walked through. Being a Gear was an obvious thing, especially in physical appearance; after spending so much time in the armor, waddling more than walking to accommodate the thigh straps and padding, you ended up walking that way for the rest of your life, not to mention the sheer difference in musculature between an enlisted and an officer, nonetheless a civilian. Gears were just fuckin' huge compared to everyone else, and being built like a brick shithouse at six-foot-two was a good way to get noticed.

He ignored the few brave, curious stares, shoving his hands in his pockets and letting the fluff of the leather bomber jacket he was wearing hide his face. The last thing he wanted in a place like this was for someone to recognize him-- people in Jacinto thought Marcus Fenix was some sort of hero, judging by the reaction he got when someone found out his name. His name had already been in print for Aspho, not to mention the court martial fiasco, and those not old enough to remember that got a good dose of it after the Delta dropped the lightmass at Timgad. But then again, Marcus never talked much anyway, and not even the bartender, a guy he saw most nights he was off-duty, knew his name.

Sitting down, he rested his hands on the bar, folded, hunching over like he always did. Posture was for people like his father, those who had something to prove or impress people with, people who sat in an office and worked nine-to-five jobs and cared about that sort of thing because they had never been out on the battlefield, they had never done anything in their lives to make them truly alive. Not like slouching was a conscious decision. He just didn't give a fuck.

The bartender strolled over, cleaning a glass with a dirty rag. The old, surly, balding man peered intently at the soldier, eying the death's head pinned to the front of the weathered, black do-rag tied to his head. He recognized the guy, always wore that damn thing, but could never place his face. Whoever he was, he'd been through hell; plain as the scars on his face and all that pain in those bloodless blue eyes.

"What'll it be tonight, son," He said, knowing the answer before it came and avoiding the unwavering stare of a man who was dead in-side and wishing he was, out.

"The good stuff," He grumbled back, his voice like big tires rolling across gravel; always weary, those intense baby blues flicking back to some indiscriminate object on the shelf of the bar in front of him. His expression stayed unchanged as the man slid a dingy shot-glass full of one-hundred-proof vodka under his nose, and downed it without making a face, or even flinching at all. But the bartender knew the drill: refill the glass as often as possible, don't ask questions. This guy was one hard bastard.

As the bartend walked over to grab the bottle of 'the good stuff', as the soldier called it, the door squeaked open yet again, and in walked the exact opposite of a hard bastard. He had to start chewing on a toothpick to keep himself from whistling, the woman was arguably the prettiest thing he'd seen in this place since E-day. Women were hard to come by these days, not to mention pretty ones, and rarely ever did the ugly ones, with too much makeup and disproportionate thighs, grace this place with their sterile wombs; since if they were here that meant they were unusable as breeding stock. But no, this lady was flat-out _gorgeous_, legs that were just right and clean-shaven, by the looks of it, a cute little pouty mouth, and a rack that would make even locust stop and stare. Almost every guy in the joint looked, some of them slack-jawed. But soldier-boy kept staring at the wall.

The pretty thing didn't seem to notice the stares or even acknowledge them at all, she just walked straight in, heels still clicking, even on the shit-tastic wood flooring, short-cropped blonde hair falling just to her shoulders and hiding part of her face. Her dark eyes, somewhat mismatched with her platinum dome, were fixed ahead of her, like she was here for someone. Following her line of sight, the bartender felt he should offer up some warning-- she had her eyes not just fixed, but locked, on the only guy left sitting on this side of the bar, the one drinking one-hundred-proof vodka, and she didn't exactly look elated. Maybe there was a score to settle, he thought, seeing the COG emblem imprinted on the side of her shoulder pads, more style than function.

She sat down next to her target, straight-backed and proper, flicking the hair out of her face. A pretty girl like that didn't belong in a dirt-shit hole in the wall like this. If this was a lover's spat, then he wasn't going to stand around and watch... that guy could eat her alive, and he would bet money that she knew that better than she let on. When she sat down, a few guys in the back got restless, and he knew what they were thinking-- _She's going for that loser? _--but, if anything, the expression on her face was more sorrow or pity than anger or lust or something else.

Soldier-boy downed his second glass, still the same dour asshole that rumbled in earlier.

_Shit_, he thought, setting the bottle on the counter and walking away, pretending he had more things to clean. _Let the bastard pour his own drinks tonight_. He still wasn't going to stand around and watch.

"Hey stranger," She said quietly, easing gently into the bar stool next to him in this dirty shit hole these men called a bar. It was a long throwback from Marcus's childhood, from what she pieced together from files in her spare time and what she had heard from Dom, he had everything anyone could ever want, all the money in the world. She remembered, after she recieved the Embry Star for her mother, Adam Fenix had invited them all to the Redoubt Hotel for a nice dinner, but it turned out to be more of a disaster; Marcus just wasn't cut out for that sort of thing, no matter how he had been raised. If that was one end of the spectrum, this dead-end hole in the wall was the complete opposite, and suited him much better.

"How goes the fight?" She implored, knowing he wasn't in the best of moods.

"It goes," He growled, looking at her. She was beautiful alright, ever since he had first set eyes on her, she was beautiful, and due to her mother's overbearing stature, she didn't even know it. She had to have noticed the ogling stares of the men that surrounded her, but knowing her, she probably chocked it up to the simple lack of women. It was bullshit. The man in Marcus made his face soften at the frown in her red lips, made his eyes linger much too long on the open-necked, off-duty shirt she was wearing. The red lights made her normally pale skin glow with a healthy light, and her hair was down. He loved it when her hair was down.

_Shit._ He thought, face still blank as ever while his brains were churning away. Grabbing the glass bottle in front of him, he poured himself another glass of the good stuff. _What the fuck is wrong with me? _

"Indeed it does," She said, trailing off, thinking of other things. He watched with his utter intelligence, knowing that she was thinking of better days as she fiddled with her slender, gloved fingers; days when things were different, and war wasn't a problem on everyone's mind. It could drive a person crazy sometimes, thinking how long this planet had been at war. First the eighty years of the Pendulum wars, fought to the death over what seemed now like the most bass-ackwards reasons, and they fucking _win_. Then the whole world goes to shit for another fourteen, going on fifteen, because of some threat they didn't even see coming. There was no end to the fighting, not even now, not even after they bombed the shit out of the locust tunnels.

"Sorry to hear about your soldier, Gonzalez. My condolences." She said, glancing at him with her dark chocolate eyes, her makeup probably days old. As he glanced sidelong at her, he thought he could see the tell-tale bags under her eyes from days and days without rest.

The words hit home, and he nodded. Gil Gonzalez had been sniped in the neck by some locust bastard; an ambush that Marcus himself had walked them right into by stopping for a distress signal, when he knew there were no squads in the area. But it was a COG distress signal, it had to be authentic, right? Even if the code they were using was an old one. He should have listened to his fucking gut. Still, Marcus hadn't been the one hardest hit by the tragedy. His squad mate, Jace Stratton -- good kid, Marcus rather liked him, it reminded him of a younger version of Dom -- had gone blank for a while. The kid was still in shock. Sometimes, it took guys a lifetime to cry for their dead buddies, and he knew that, long after it mattered, Jace would.

He let out a _hrmph_, usually his expression for frustration, disappointment, discontent. "Appreciate it," He said, taking a swig of whatever foul shit he had been drinking. She knew he didn't feel a thing. "But words don't bring people back."

It was a morbid sentiment, but she knew he was right. One of the funny things about Marcus was the fact that he felt every death that happened in his squad. Really, he always felt personally responsible for anyone who died on his watch, that was just how the man was. It reminded her vaguely of Aspho, how Carlos's death had rocked his foundation in life; and even though that had been multiple times worse, it caused Marcus to have this innate drive to keep as many Gears alive as he possibly could. Which, given the man, was a lot of Gears.

_A born leader_, she thought to herself, looking sideways at his time-worn face as a small smile danced across her lips. If the war ever ended, she wondered vaguely what he would do. Maybe all the good citizens of Jacinto would vote him into Chairman; if not for his war record than for the sheer fact that they didn't want a guy like that roaming the streets at night. She almost laughed at the thought. Marcus would hate it, of course, he hated politics; his natural distrust of higher-ups like Prescott and Hoffman stemmed back to his father and the secrecy he was steeped in as a scientist, not just because Hoffman left him to rot in the Slab for a few years.

The jagged scars down his right cheek had not been there before those four long years. There were more scars, probably, and she wasn't sure if they were from whatever crazy experiments they conducted at that horrible place, or just locust that he had been defenseless to fight off. If anything, it was unnerving how he slipped right back into the combat like the forty years that were assigned to him were just a leaf blowing in the wind. There was still bad blood between he and Hoffman, there always would be, and Anya knew she would never understand why the Colonel had left a frigging war hero to rot in Ephyra's most dreaded incarceration facility, while letting all the rapists and pedophiles and serial killers and who-knew-what else go. That was really her only beef with Hoffman, and sometimes she got the feeling that the old man didn't even know why.

She wondered how Marcus ever made it through the day.


	2. Chapter 2

From when she walked in, Anya turned heads in this dead-end bar. Even though he didn't look, from spending years and years on the battlefield, Marcus seemed to have an extra sense for things moving around him. _Every man _in the _entire place _stared, it was like Marcus could feel their heads turning to watch her perfect little ass bob up and down as her hips swayed from side to side in her practiced walk; no longer was she the delicate little girl he had seen at Aspho. She'd had plenty of time to get used to the heels, and even if she didn't know it, she walked damn well. The only thing Marcus hadn't expected was the jealousy.

His mind did funny things sometimes. As much as he kept himself cool and nonchalant on the outside, inside he could equate the feeling to an emotional storm, a hurricane that just built and built and built and was only released when his life depended on it-- which was usually through the end of his lancer, sawing through armor and blood and guts and bone while he was screaming out all his confliction at those who had caused it. Well, most of it, anyway. It was one of the few things he could get some sort of high off of-- the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought for his life, it was the reason he enlisted in the first place.

But _here_, in the middle of Jacinto, in the middle of the last secured and civilized place in Ephyra, was the last place he expected that feeling. When he felt his breathing quicken, his eyes open wider, his palms open, slightly sweaty, and the rest of his body get that twinge, like it was about to get electrocuted, he knew something was wrong. His brain wasn't controlling that. His face stayed calm, like it always did, it was a practiced tactic that he had mastered long before he dreamt of living in COG armor. No, the fire that had sprung in his chest was controlling it, it felt like someone was strangling his gut, grabbing it tight enough to hurt, threatening to rip it out, but knowing that keeping the hold on it was more pain than just ripping the damn thing out.

Eventually, after she sat down, started talking to him, he got himself under control. Outside, he hadn't changed a bit, there was nothing that any random observer could have picked out, any change in his countenance or mannerism was simply absent. That didn't mean the raging inferno inside had been defeated, it was only quieted, moved to a dull roar between his ears so he could ignore it better. If it was a cranial problem, he could ignore that with even greater ease than keeping himself calm; hell, he ignored sleep, so why not?

Still, there were two men in his peripheral vision that kept staring. Even after she sat down, even after she had made it _clear_ that Marcus was the only one she wanted to talk to, those two damn assholes kept fucking staring, drooling even, making obscene gestures with their hands and mouths that let Marcus know exactly what they were talking about. They were the worst kind of scum, men who acted like boys and didn't give a flying fuck about the rest of the world on the verge of extinction. They were looking for a place to stick their dicks, and Anya had waltzed in at the wrong time.

The larger one, black with a shaved head, looked like he had eaten some Gear rations recently, maybe within a few months. That meant he was on some sort of medical leave, an extended period of time that let him eat normal human food on a normal man's calorie ration and lose some of the bulk. But his mannerisms told Marcus that he was certainly buzzed, and probably hadn't seen much actual fighting; one of the losers who got shot in the ass because they didn't have enough sense to turn around and shoot while they were pissing their pants and running for their mommies. His buddy was white, slightly smaller, with an army flat-top haircut and a gay little goatee; one that just skirted around the edge of the chin, something like Prescott's. For all he knew, they had probably been in the same squad.

He sensed them stand up, Baldie first, and cross the bar, their dirty fucking eyes absolutely _fixed_ on Anya. Something primal shifted in the pit of his stomach, and the dull roar between his ears was growing into a low growl at the back of his throat, and he knew-- tonight he was going to do something _stupid_.

Anya could almost sense the tension radiating from Marcus as the two men approached her, one behind her and one behind him. The bald one with the ugly face leaned over, looking her more in the chest than in the eyes, and asked the first thing every lame bar-fly seemed to ask.

"Hey sweet thing, buy you a drink?" He rasped, his voice definitely hoarse for one reason or another. She kept her eyes focused away from him, on Marcus, because she couldn't help but notice how tightly he was grasping his shot glass, no matter how calm his face was.

"No, but thanks." She was polite, at least, and maybe the nicety would defuse the situation. It was a bad assumption on her part.

"You sure?" He smiled toothily, black beady eyes giving her the up-down, hands on his hips. This jackass just wasn't going to give up. "Heard the 'shine here was as sweet as you." He was drunk, if not smashed off his ass than at least part-way, that at least was clear from his speech. She was about to tell him to get lost when, to her surprise, Marcus threw the switch.

"The lady said no." He rumbled, pouring himself another glass of that straight alcohol shit and swigging it. He was looking straight forward, losing his gaze in some bottle on the shelf across the bar. But his comment did the wrong thing-- it pissed Baldie off. The guy's smile immediately dropped and his arms went slack, shifting his weight so he could lean over Marcus's shoulder and talk up-close.

"Well _I_ wasn't talking to you." He said in a tone that just said _'fuck you'._ "Don't hate the game, man."

"Game, that's a good one." There was a twitch in his neck. "Better be careful you know which one you're playing." Marcus's voice rumbled, dangerous and low, to the drunkard's ears, but apparently the '_don't fuck with me_' tone was lost in the translation. His buddy, army-boy from his regulation haircut, stood to Marcus's other side with his arms crossed, like they could take him or something.

"What the fuck, man? It's not like chicks are fallin' from trees around here!" Baldie leaned heavily on his right foot, trying to get a better look at Marcus while he was spouting his little rant. He was off balance, and Anya decided to use that to her advantage, and put this class-A jerk back in the hole he came from. "The farms are bad enough, keeping all the good ones locked up an--"

THWACK!

She tried to put her weight behind it, making a fist like they taught her to at the academy's defense class, which was _years_ ago. She was more than a little rusty, and her hand was going to hurt like hell, but when her fist connected with his nose, she heard a satisfying _crack_ and felt the bridge of it, at least, collapse beneath her knuckles. The guy made some interesting noises, stumbling backwards from his previously off-balance stance, his ass finally backing into the nearest vacant table. She smiled as she watched him writhe, proud of herself, when a hand grabbed her face and jerked it around.

"Crazy bitch!" Army boy had figured out what happened, and decided that she needed a little retribution, grabbing her face with one hand and winding up his other, about to slap her into oblivion. His grip was strong, and there was no way she could twist out of it easily without getting herself hurt more, but before she knew it, Marcus stood behind him. She blinked for a second, glancing at his still-swiveling bar stool, not even knowing he had moved.

"I'll tell you one last time," He growled, a sneer forming on his lips as he grabbed the guy's drawn-back hand with his own and crushed it almost in half. "You're playing the wrong goddamn game." The force of Marcus's grip distracted Army-boy enough to let go of Anya's face, and she watched as Marcus handled the guy like a piece of paper. Grabbing the back of his neck with his free hand, with one deft shift of his weight Marcus threw the guy to the floor headlong, his skull smacking into the rotting floorboards with the sickening _thwack_ of bone on wood.

Everyone in the bar was watching now. Anya thought she could hear the bartender chewing on his toothpick in the short silence that followed.

"And you--" Marcus roared, keeping Anya behind him as he took up a stance, pointing at Baldie. "Don't even think about it." The guy had regained enough of his composure to get back into it, even though blood was streaming freely from his freshly fractured nose and Marcus had totally dropped his buddy with almost no effort at all.

"Get back to your goddamn corner and think about what a lucky day you just had," Whatever had tripped his switch, Marcus was fucking _pissed_. Anya had never known him to lose his temper so quickly and violently, he was the guy that would clam up and keep his mouth shut if something pissed him off, not lash out like he was doing now. She glanced at the vodka, and wondered if it had finally gotten to him, but then thought better of it. He'd had enough of those ration bars to keep him alcohol-buzz-free for the rest of his life. But still, something else was wrong... perhaps she shouldn't have pulled that punch.

Baldie was a good boy, and stayed well out of the reach of Marcus's outstretched hand, shifting over to try and wake up his unconscious friend. He knew well enough that this fight was over, especially because of how the crazy fucker was standing now-- it was ingrained into every male brain, his stance, as a warning sign. his head was low and his shoulders hunched, holding his arms in front of him, legs spread apart so that his weight was even and could move with ease. Wild blue eyes flicked around, analyzing every angle of attack, every defense that could be managed for each. It was the _don't-touch-my-fucking-woman _stance, and a trigger fired in Baldie's brain to keep him from making any sudden movements. When a guy was standing like that, it was extremely likely someone was going to get killed; namely, those going up against him.

He started to say something, but that pretty blonde cut him off.

"Marcus, this guy's not gonna take a hint." She said behind him, hands at her sides, more like a casual observer. But Baldie got the message, in a city this small, there was only one Marcus people knew.

Marcus grunted in reply. _Fuck_, he thought, watching as the beady black eyes opened, the face relaxing with realization. _She used my fucking name. My fucking NAME._

"Wait," the guy started slowly, straightening up. "Like, Marcus Fenix? Um.." He averted his eyes, and Marcus groaned internally, knowing everyone had heard. Somewhere behind him, a guy choked on his beer, spitting it out onto the floor. Marcus Fenix was a hero in this town, and he felt the eyes, turning to look at his face more intently, trying to memorize every detail about a guy who had been right up in the shit and shoved it back in the Locust's faces. But it was all recognition he didn't want, _at all_.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Baldie said, finally drawing the line between the face in the papers and the hard bastard in front of him. "I'm so sorry, really..."

"Shit." Marcus took a deep breath and relaxed, standing up straight and regaining his constant semblance of calm almost instantly, rolling his shoulders back into their normal slouch, and cracking his enormous neck. He turned around slowly, eyes scanning for the bartender.

"Send the tab to Victor Hoffman," He said plainly, and the guy nodded; he hadn't planned on asking for the tab anyway. Avoiding the burning stares, Marcus looked at Anya, his face blank, back to normal.

"Let's get the hell outta here." He grumbled, jerking his head towards the door and shrugging his jacket higher on to his shoulders, the fluff around the neck settling somewhere around his ears as he began towards the old, creaky door. His steps were loud, firm, heavy, and Anya, trailing behind him, seemed like a toothpick. Eyes followed both of them on their way out, and as they passed, murmurs started. Marcus just walked straight, not paying attention to any of them, making sure to slam the door after Anya.


	3. Chapter 3

A gust of wind blew from the south end of the slum alley, bringing with it the coldest air of the night, along with remnants of newspapers, plastic bottles, and the smell of bums around the corner. Even though they were standing just outside the bar, and her hand hurt like hell, and it was damn _freezing_, Anya couldn't help but think how beautiful Jacinto was at night. To her sides stretched the cobblestone alleyway, grass and weeds slowly reclaiming the once-squared stones, the vegetation even scaling the concrete wall in front of her that was slowly losing chunks of itself due to lack of maintenance. Looking upwards and wrapping her arms around herself so as to conserve heat, she saw the stars, a crystal clear sky with a waxing crescent moon, completely cloudless, against the silhouette of a high rise that had fallen into disrepair that was just past the dilapidated wall.

In the heyday of the Coalition, the sky would not have been visible at all, due to the immense amount of ambient light from cities that never slept, and the smog from imulsion-powered machinery that kept such a civilization alive. To herself, stars reflecting in her wide, dark eyes, she was thankful it wasn't that way anymore.

"You gonna stand there all night and freeze, or are you coming?" Marcus grunted, walking into the wind, from maybe ten feet ahead of her. The moon at his back put his face into shadow, and in addition with the puff of the jacket it made his silhouette appear that of some sort of monster, come to exact his vengeance. She imagined him encased in his massive armor, realizing just how much more menacing it made him, and wondered if the Locusts were capable of feeling fear.

Nodding, she sauntered lightly over to his left side, careful not to trip on any loose weeds or stones in her three-inch pumps. He turned back around, continuing to walk while she kept up, facing the end of the alley in front of them. There, the concrete wall to the right ended, along with the run-down building on the left, opening up onto a street made of cracked asphalt that was sparsely lit with the soft, yellow glow of imulsion-powered street lamps. It was deserted, of course; this was the witching hour, hardly anyone was out on the street at this time of night. Most were cooped up inside out of habit, or fear of the kryll that still lurked about. But it was at least six months after the Lightmass had been dropped; not one kryll had been spotted since, and if that was the only positive result that came of it, it was still positive, and it was still worth it.

They turned right onto the street in a comfortable silence, Marcus's hands shoved in his jacket's pockets, and Anya shivered a bit as another gust of wind whipped around her exposed lower thighs, realizing that maybe skirts weren't the best thing to wear on these kind of nights. It was clear that summer was long gone and autumn was well on it's way. That was really the only thing uncomfortable about this place, it was so damn cold, not only because Jacinto was situated on a peninsula overlooking the sea, but its location in the mountains and proximity to the glaciers in between made a drastic difference in the temperatures. Further south in Ephyra, out of the range of the mountains, it was more of a sub-tropical climate, with summers to warm your bones and balmy, mild winters. But, she thought, glancing at the hulk of a man walking to her right, there was no other place she'd rather be than here.

"Let me see your hand," He asked with a sidelong glance, she guessed he must have noticed how gingerly she had been holding it. To any passing bystander, the wall of muscle could have been just that-- a wall of muscle, brainless, stupid. But one thing you could never forget about Marcus was how ferociously intelligent he was; behind the blank facade was a man continuously swirled deep in the recesses of his own mind, thinking.

He paused under a lit streetlamp as she outstretched her right hand, and winced when he grasped it to inspect the damage. While under the yellow light, it was clear that under her fingerless gloves, there was extensive bruising; it may have even been broken.

"Shit." He muttered, looking it over, seeing how badly she had trashed one of her most precious instruments. "You gotta wrap that up before it swells up like a watermelon." He added frankly, looking her in the eye and releasing his grip, letting her wrap it back around her chest, which was getting chilly. He continued walking again, with more of a direction then he had before he examined her injury, crossing the street in the intersection in front of them. For the first time since they left the bar, she wondered as she followed close at his side where the hell he was leading her, and why she was following him in the first place. But before she could inquire, he got there first.

"We'll wrap it at my place," He said, reading her mind. "It's closer than anywhere else."

_His place?_ She thought, curious to the fact he had a 'place' at all. Marcus didn't strike her as the kind of guy to have something like that, as much sense as it made-- he was off-duty for a week, and seeing as there were limited bunks in the barracks back at COG headquarters downtown, they were all reserved for on-duty personnel and/or the recovering wounded, so he would need a place to stay. She wondered if he was staying with someone-- Dom maybe? As much as Marcus and Dom were brothers to the end, she didn't see them living together for a week.

"Who taught you how to punch?" He asked, snapping her train of thought and turning his head to gaze at her while they walked. He really was genuinely curious, studying her smooth, angled face as she smiled sarcastically; strands of blonde hair blowing about, while those round, dark eyes glanced at him briefly. He couldn't help but think how beautiful she really was.

"It was defense training, back at the academy." She replied, partially embarrassed; he knew how old she was and how long ago she had finished her classes, when defense training was one of the first. Apparently the COG didn't pride their officers on fighting abilities, since the class was immensely simple, just exercises in how to punch and kick and perform basic self defense. He probably knew more about hand-to-hand combat from sheer experience than she would ever want to know. "Why, was it bad?"

To her surprise, he let out a small chuckle, shaking his head, then looking at her again, a smirk painted on his normally stoic features.

"Nah, you did good." He used his left elbow, hand still in the pocket, and gave her a light tap on the back, causing her to stumble slightly. It only made him smile more. "It was sloppy. You got your weight behind it though, bastard got one hell of a punch. Turned his nose on like a faucet." She laughed, a pealing, solid, full laugh, and he felt his chest swell. It wasn't often that he heard someone laugh, besides the sarcastic shit he got out in the field with the guys, but that wasn't real laughter. He sighed.

"I'll teach you how to do it right sometime," He grumbled out, looking away from her, trying to keep his smiling to a minimum. _What the fuck is wrong with me tonight?_

"I don't get it though," She said, thinking aloud as Marcus turned right on to another alley, more like a large sidewalk or side street really. They were in a nicer neighborhood now, with buildings where a good percentage of the windows were still intact, and maintenance, however often, was somewhat of a priority; that was obvious from the lack of overgrown plants crawling up the sides of the buildings. It was almost on the verge of upscale; there were a few nice, late-model, imulsion powered vehicles parked ahead of them, all relics now, and Anya wondered absentmindedly if they still worked. Marcus turned left, into a small gap between two apartment buildings, and she continued her verbal train of thought. "Why those jerks would go after me, I mean. I'm not--"

"You've got to be shittin me." They had exited the gap to turn left and walk up the steps to an old concrete building, with two wide, double-glass-paned doors, sleek white handles stretching along the front. Marcus stopped with one calloused hand on a handle, light from the small lobby inside spilling out and illuminating the intense stare he fixed her with. "You're fuckin beautiful, Anya." He said firmly, slight smile resolving back into his normal blank demeanor, watching her surprised face. "Don't sell yourself short."

She stood there, mouth hanging open only slightly, as he pushed open the door and entered the small lobby. A feeling swelled up in her chest that she hadn't felt for a long time, or, had managed to suppress, at least; like she had swallowed something that was still alive and now it pushed against her sternum, desperate to be free of the cruel captivity she had placed it in. It was fighting up her throat, catching her breath, making her body move independently of her mind, following him in, no matter how much she wanted to stay rooted to the spot.

The lobby was simple; just a small corridor with four elevator doors, two on each side, the polished metal gleaming from the fluorescent light above them. In the middle of the room was a round wooden table, the legs carved beautifully and stained with a rich, dark color. On the table was a vase of flowers, none wilted or dying; a simple yet elegant touch that reminded her of that uncomfortable dinner at the Redoubt hotel so long ago, making her wonder why Marcus was staying here. From the sleek, clean, undamaged look of the elevators, she assumed they still worked, which would make this place not just upscale but insanely expensive. She fidgeted slightly, still wrestling with her feelings, as Marcus leaned forward and pushed the button indicating 'up'. The door to his left opened immediately with a small _ding_.

Other than that, it was silent as they entered the elevator. Anya was squirming in a funny way, standing on Marcus's right side as he watched her through the closed, mirrored door in front of them, messing with her fingers, putting her hair behind her ears, keeping her eyes down and definitely _not _meeting his. He wondered if what he said had offended her, but quickly came to the conclusion that she would not have followed him if it had, no matter how much her hand hurt. Anya was a very strong woman; maybe not as outwardly hairy-assed as her mother but definitely enough of her own person to have let him walk in here alone. If anything, it was obvious she was uncomfortable, but he was nothing more than relaxed.

To be honest, he didn't quite understand why it bothered her so much, from the way she clammed up. He was the kind for blunt conversation, and she of all people would know that, knowing him as long as she had. How long had it been now, since they met in that awards ceremony waiting room? It was a few weeks after Aspho, and he had been twenty... so, sixteen years or so. Shit, he had known her for _sixteen years_. That was a lifetime, and there were days where he forgot that fact; where she was just the controller speaking through his headset, and he was a soldier carrying out orders; no connection whatsoever between them. Apart from Dom, though, she was really the only other person he honestly trusted, they were friends. That was why he said it, because they were friends, and she should damn well know.

Another quiet _ding_ from the elevator, and the doors slid open to reveal a nondescript hallway, with beige walls, white moldings on the floor and ceiling, and a largely maroon carpet interspersed with intricate green and yellow designs. Just looking at this place, one couldn't believe there was a war going on outside this place, that the human race was on the verge of extinction, that almost half of this very city had been destroyed by monsters from underneath their feet. This place was a chunk of lost time, in practically perfect condition. The only hint at any sort of disrepair was grime on the windows at the end of the hallway to the left as they exited the elevator, now wooden-paneled doors sliding closed behind them. Marcus walked towards the door at the opposite end from the windows, passing maybe three or four doors on either side on the way there.

Stopping, he pulled his keys out of his pocket, and Anya stood behind him slightly, looking back down the hallway they had just walked. The location in the apartment building struck her, they were on the top floor, maybe five stories, and this was the apartment on the end, usually the biggest on the floor. Turning back to Marcus and looking at the door, it was a dark tan color, solidly painted, with fancy gold numbers screwed on to the front reading _501_ that glittered slightly in the soft light from the sconces that lit the deserted hallway. The key jingling stopped and she heard the tumblers in the lock opening, letting him turn the handle. He opened it, and lifted up his arm, motioning for her to enter first. She gaped.

Marcus had the frigging _penthouse suite_.


	4. Chapter 4

It was dark in the room, but that didn't stop her from noticing what a pretty penny it must cost to live here. It wasn't the size, necessarily, that made the apartment so lavish, but nonetheless it was one of the largest she'd seen since the war had begun that hadn't fallen into disrepair, the main room being enough to entertain at least fifteen to twenty people comfortable, which was quite a lot for an apartment. No, the appearance of luxury came from a conglomerate effect; along with exuding an immaculate standard of cleanliness, the furnishings were nice and looked extremely comfortable, from the plush leather couch, love seat, and decent-sized television in the living area on her left to the well-maintained appliances and counter tops in the kitchen to her right, it was as if this place was a time capsule, like E-Day hadn't even happened and this was how everyone lived. On the far left, the wall was made of three large, single-paned windows that looked out on to a small porch, letting the soft yellow glow of the imulsion lamps outside fall across the furniture, giving it a dream-like quality.

"Nice place," Anya remarked, eyebrows raised, thinly veiling her surprise as she entered, taking in the full effect of a place like this, making her way over to the windows. Unbroken windows were rare in Jacinto, especially clean ones, and these looked like they were absolutely _spotless_. Peering out of them, and over the balcony outside, she glimpsed a small cul-de-sac below; the sparse, under groomed, gnarled trees interspersed in the sidewalk given a ghastly connotation as the filtered light spilled over their leaves and stumps, tinging them with the sickly yellow of imulsion. There was a vehicle or two parallel-parked around it, but everything was motionless at this time of night.

Seeing the cars, she smiled, a joke coming to mind.

"Does the Lexus come complimentary?" She asked, laughing slightly to herself, turning her back to the window to look at Marcus. In his hands he held his leather jacket, about to hang it on the now-closed door, pausing at her question. Because of the lack of light she wasn't able to see his face, but she could tell from the dissatisfied grunt that it was not a joke that he appreciated. Her smile vanished; realizing she may have hit a nerve due to Marcus's well-known aversion of all things expensive.

He hung his coat on the small hook on the back of the door and flicked on a dim light in the kitchen on the opposite side of the room, boots clunking on the tile floor that began just past the entry door. Bending over slightly, he rummaged in a few of the cabinets under the small island in the middle, grabbing a few things and setting them on the counter of the island: and ace bandage and an icepack.

"Alright, c'mere." He said, looking at her, jerking his head back a little bit so that she would get the message. She nodded, and walked over; the transition from the beige carpet to the tile too obvious due to the sudden _klunk klunk klunk_ of her pumps, and she smiled as she sat down on one of the bar stool-like chairs on the opposite side of the bar from him, leaning on the counter with her elbows. He guessed she was oblivious to exactly how much cleavage she was exposing as his eyes wandered down around her chest area, but it wasn't like he was going to tell her.

"Take off your glove." He muttered, unwrapping the ace bandage as she peeled off the ribbed, form-fitting fabric of the glove on her right hand, wincing in pain as it slid over the sensitive area around her knuckles. Originally the gloves were meant to prevent Carpal Tunnel Syndrome in those COG officers that used computers often, and they still did that just fine, but Anya was one of the few officers in such a position that took advantage of the gloves. But even then, she appreciated them for more fashion than form; it was the spandex that constricted around her hand and caused her so much pain.

After her glove was fully removed and set aside, he held her hand gently, his displeasure at the magnitude of the bruise obvious on his usually stoic face. The deep purple coloring underneath her skin enveloped her knuckles, swollen and painful, while the pale blue of a bruise not yet fully formed seeped down on to her fingers, and stretched almost as far back on her hand as her wrist. His calloused fingers felt her soft palm as he gently rotated her wrist, observing the full extent of her injury. Her hands were dwarfed in his own, and subconsciously, he noticed how his thumb seemed like a giant's compared to her small, slender fingers, her nails neatly manicured while his own were short and stubby, scarred in a few places.

"So... how' d you get this place?" Anya asked, making conversation, waking him out of his thoughts. He blinked a few times and reached for the bandage to his right, grunting unhappily at her question as he began wrapping her injured hand.

"It was my father's," He said flatly, not inviting any more questions, and Anya knew not to press him for detail. As soon as he said it everything made sense, all the wealth that it took to sustain a place like this was something that his father, Adam Fenix, had definitely possessed and even wielded with his cold, calculating mind. She had seen the mansion Marcus grew up in, and albeit it was derelict at the time, there was still a quiet majesty about the place that dwarfed the onlooker in both historic value and sheer power. It was a feeling that exuded from his father; Anya felt it herself a few weeks after the Battle of Aspho Fields, after she accepted her mother's Embry Star, when she was seated near him during a very snooty and stifling dinner. The Professor was a very unpleasant man as far as she could tell, and he had even asked her if she would put her mother's post-mortem award in a museum. Her curt reply caught Marcus's attention, which made her believe that he disliked his father just as much as she did, and made it all the more puzzling why he would stay in a place like he was now.

Still, the more she thought about it, the more logical it seemed: Marcus, having returned from an extended deployment, would have been exhausted and looking for the easiest place to stay. Dom would find a friend to stay with, but Marcus was more of a solitary guy, which meant staying with anyone _other_ than Dom was an uncomfortable prospect. He'd have known this place was here, he'd have known that the place was still in the Fenix family name. So it was his only choice.

_bzzzzzz. bzzzzzzzz. bzzzzzzzz. _

The incessant buzzing coming from her pocket was not only an unwanted sound, but unpleasant, bringing her back to the here and now.

"Damnit... sorry Marcus, hold on a sec." She said, drawing her hands away from him, causing him to grunt slightly in discontent as she fumbled her pager out of her blouse pocket. He gave her a look, knowing that the pager was her link to command on her off-duty hours; but it wasn't the first time she had been called away when they had run into each other, and Marcus wasn't thrilled that it was about to happen again. He watched, his face blank, as she flipped open the screen on the small black device and began to read.

FROM: LT COL HOFFMAN

URGENT__Control Com reque]sted 0200 hr.

_END MSG.

Anya sighed, biting her lip and debating her options. She could accept the request and be to command in under ten minutes, back to working when she had just been let go only hours ago. She knew that Hoffman meant her, he always meant her; being the most capable at her job she was always in demand. But no, he hadn't asked for her by name, and she hardly got to see Marcus when he wasn't fighting for his life, nonetheless sitting here in front of her. Something in her chest fluttered, a warm, compassion that she hadn't felt for quite some time, and she knew that this was where she wanted to be.

"It's just Hoffman," She told him nonchalantly, meeting his wary, icy blue eyes with her own dark brown, tapping away on the buttons of her pager. "I'll tell Mathieson to take it, I just got off shift." She added, throwing him a small smile as she closed the pager and set it aside on the counter. "No big deal."

Despite her enthusiasm, Marcus's countenance didn't change as she presented her right hand back to him, he simply let out a breath and let his eyes flick back to her hand, re-doing part of the wrapping that had been messed up while she was twiddling with her pager. Watching him as she did so, Anya looked at his face, and couldn't imagine that this was the same Marcus Fenix on the battlefield, that the hands that held her own so delicately were the same that had crushed windpipes and skulls without any regard for the life of the owner. In the low light, the scar on his face was stark, and she wondered for the thousandth time what could have done that. On his neck even, it seemed the scar continued, down under the collar of his black shirt.

"Thanks, Marcus." She said quietly as he finished wrapping her hand, clipping the ends of the bandage to itself.

"What'd I do," He replied, glancing sidelong at her beautiful face, her dark eyes downcast and looking at her mended hand, strands of platinum hair falling into her face as she leaned upon the other.

"For backing me up at the bar." She smirked slightly, looking at him, indicating her hand. "And for this."

"Yeah, well... Don't get used to it." He grumbled, looking away from her and fighting back the upward curl of his lips as he turned around to the refrigerator behind and to his left, reaching in the freezer and rummaging around for some ice. Grabbing a handful, which was quite a lot, in Marcus's case, he turned around and filled the icepack that was lying on the counter, zipping it up and handing it to the pretty blonde.

"Alright. Now go sit your ass down and let it get numb." He said, indicating the couch on the opposite side of the room. She nodded, taking the icepack from his hand and placing it on her own, hopping off the stool a little less-than-gracefully and making her way over to the couch as she was told. Sitting down, she found the couch was actually much more comfortable than it looked, and she thought that perhaps the Professor had been human after all.

"You want a beer or somethin'?" Marcus asked from across the room, leaning inside the refrigerator and grabbing himself a bottle. She smiled, thinking he should know better as she slipped of her pumps to sit cross-legged on the couch.

"No thanks, I'm okay." She replied, leaning forward to grab the remote that sat in front of her on the coffee table with her un-injured hand, turning on the television that sat in the corner. Immediately the Chairman's face flashed up on the screen, and even though the volume was low, she knew what he was talking about. It was the normal bullshit fed to all the non-military personnel-- about the lightmass bomb, about the Locust in general; propaganda that said they were winning, the COG was winning, when both Anya and Marcus and anyone else who had actually _seen_ the swath of destruction carved out by both halves placed them, at best, at a stalemate.

Marcus shut off the light in the kitchen, waddling in his peculiar crab-like way over to the couch where Anya sat, cracking open his bottle of stale beer simply with his fist. She watched as he sat to her left, propping his enormous boots up on the coffee table, stretching his free arm to rest on the top ledge of the couch behind her. Taking a swig of the beer, his eyes trained on the television, the blue glow lighting his face starkly, making every scar and wrinkle visible to the small woman to his right. She couldn't help but notice the slashing, jagged mark down his face, how it stretched from the top of his lip all the way up to the top of his cheekbone, right next to his eye. Smaller scars accompanied it, in the same direction, and seemingly with the same malicious intent, disturbing the firm line of his jaw, warping the smooth skin on his face. Whatever had been done to him in the Slab, it must have been horrific.

"How did you do it, Marcus? Prison, I mean...How did you get through it?"

He glanced sidelong at her, not quite turning his head. Immediately he saw she was embarrassed, like she hadn't meant to say anything at all, it just slipped out. But, however blunt, it was a simple enough question, not asking _what_, like he got from Dom, but _how_.

He made a low noise with his throat, not quite a grunt or a growl but somewhere in-between. "I survived. Thats what I do." He said concisely, taking another sip of beer.

He kept his eyes focused on the images flashing in front of him on the screen, trying to block out the memories that would haunt him for the rest of his life. All those tubes they plugged into his skin, all the drugs they tested-- amphetamines, painkillers, everything. The things he had seen done to people, sometimes through his own eyes, unable to stop because he wasn't the one in control. And then there were the locust that came at night, terrorizing the inmates that still cared about living, mauling the ones that didn't. He remembered the wretch's claws as it raked down his face....

And then she was touching him, _hugging_ him, her small arms wrapped as best they could around his torso, and _what the hell was she doing?!_

"I don't need your _pity_," He spat, glaring as he shrugged her off like she was no more than a fly on his arm. He didn't look at her face, at the surprise, the hurt that quickly turned to anger; all he did was turn back to the screen, knowing what would happen next as he sipped his beer.

"I should go," She said flatly, and he felt her weight move off of the couch as she stood up and put her shoes back on. He stayed wordless, eyes on the T.V., his mind bracing for the impact. She wasn't going to forgive him easily for this, and he heard the door open, her shoes pausing at the threshold.

"Goodnight, Marcus." She said quietly, angrily, tinged with regret. Then the door slammed shut, and she was gone.

Marcus placed his beer on the table, leaned forward, and put his hands on his forehead, massaging his temples.

"..._Shit_."


	5. Chapter 5

She was alone.

It was always disconcerting, walking this late at night; Anya glanced left and right, into every dark corner and alleyway looking for an attacker that she knew wasn't there, her arms wrapped around her tightly so as to fend off the worst of the cold. It had been a while since she was out this late, if she was awake at this time of night it meant she was in the Com center, working late, or she would lie awake in her small officer's apartment, just staring at the ceiling until her next shift rolled around. A feeling in the pit of her stomach rolled as she thought about the Kryll, and for a brief moment she squinted up into the dark, cloudy sky, past the golden glow of the street lamp behind her. _But no... _She shook her head, continuing down the lonely street. _No, they weren't here_. If they were, she would have already been dead.

A small breeze blew about her slim figure, causing her to shiver. The temperature had dropped drastically since she had first walked from the bar with Marcus, and she was not at all thrilled at that shit he pulled that put her out here in the first place, either. Her face contorted into a frown as she thought of the cold manner in which he had just tossed her aside, like she was _nothing_, and she wasn't hugging him out of _pity_, maybe the guy just looked like he needed a _hug_, and --

God, she needed to stop this. Getting herself even more flustered was not what she needed to do right now.

Ahead of her was an intersection, and along with that, a street sign that would tell her how far she had to go to get back to her small, cookie-cutter, military style apartment, one of many converted rooms that surrounded the new command center in the middle of the city. Approaching the sign, she peered at it, the light from the last street lamp was dim at this point, but she couldn't keep herself from groaning when she saw the name. The street running perpendicular was called Spring Hill. The only Spring Hill she knew ran on the eastern side of the city, pretty much the furthest civilized point you could get to without crossing the bastion wall into Stranded territory.

She sighed, knowing it was a good half-hour's walk from where she was, and she knew there was no way she could make it in this cold. She could walk the five minutes back to Marcus's, which was really not much of an option given her exit, or she could call someone. Marina, maybe; a secretary from Command that she had become acquainted with through necessity of communication. The girl was nice enough, with a blunt sense of humor that could give any member of Delta Squad a run for their money. The girl was in her early twenties, and was probably out partying this late anyway, so maybe she'd give it a try.

Patting around in her blouse pockets for her pager, she let out a loud, audible moan.

"Auuuuugh....." She had left her communicator in Marcus's apartment, right on the counter. She had walked right past it when she left. _Hell._ She needed that pager, it was a vital piece of equipment to be kept on her person at all times, and not only was it inconvienient now that she had to call someone, but if command tried to get in contact with her and she did not reply, Hoffman would have her ass, not to mention if she told him she_ lost _it. It was hard for the COG to replace the most vital pieces of armor, nowadays, nonetheless a small piece of relatively insignificant equipment.

"God damnit." She huffed, turning around and stomping with a new purpose back the way she'd come.

* * *

Marcus sighed deeply, shutting off the television, draining the rest of his beer, standing up and stretching. It figured, really, he thought at he walked over to the trashcan, dropping the empty bottle inside. It figured that he would fins some way to fuck the damn night up. Seriously, he had finally gotten to spend some time with Anya, it was the most time they had spent face to face since he took her home after he was awarded the Embry Star, and he managed to fuck it up. It wasn't like he wanted anything from her-- he wasn't looking for a quick fuck, however nice it would be. No, he wouldn't do that to Anya, she was worth more.

He couldn't find the right words to explain it to himself; the way he felt about her was something more complicated than the schematic of a lancer, maybe even the Locust tunnel system. It started this crazy urge that started in his chest to have her near him, at all times. Then he found himself looking at her face before admiring her womanly figure, admiring the shade of her eyes and cute tip of her nose before the curves of her chest and hips. It was a different feeling than the one he felt when he was still a young kid, at Aspho and times beyond. Back then, all he really wanted from her was sex, but he wasn't going to rape the poor girl. When he'd taken her home, she was only sixteen, and he was twenty... not a good mix, in his mind, and, as he held her that night, her tears staining his collar as she mourned her mother's death, it was the beginning of what he felt now, this intense compassion starting as a small spark so long ago.

He began to walk to his bedroom, not going to sleep so much as rest his tired body, when he noticed the small, square, black device on his counter. Anya had left her pager behind.

He let out a small _hmph _and grabbed it, crossing from the main room and turning left into a small hallway, then right almost immediately to enter his generously sized bedroom. In the center of the room, the most prominent feature was the bed, a large queen size with cobalt blue sheets, complementing the muted, steel blue on the walls. The sheets of the bed were so untouched that it could be assumed that the bed itself hadn't been slept on in years; which, of course, it hadn't. To the right of the bed, even with the door on the opposite wall, was a large window, reminiscent of the ones in the living room, giving a rather breathtaking view of the broken Jacinto skyline, day or night.

Marcus fully entered the room, sighing, and mostly-shut the door, leaving a few inches of open space because there was really no need to close it anyway. He set her pager down on the low dresser against the right hand wall, glancing out the window as he did so. The night was cold, and the glow of the street lamps outside was diffused slightly through small tendrils of frost that crept around the edges. He hoped that Anya would be alright. Hell, who was he kidding, she was a tough chick, she fuckin would be.

He sighed again, and stripped off his shirt so as to be more comfortable, in one fluid movement, when his ever-alert ears captured soft footsteps, and the door creaking open behind him.

"Hey, Marcus?" Speak of the devil, it was Anya. "I left my--"

She paused, when her head entered the door, obviously startled at Marcus's state of undress, her round, brown eyes not meeting Marcus's icy gaze, but clearly observing his figure with some combination of astonishment and embarrassment. Her scrutinizing eyes made Marcus uncharacteristically uncomfortable, and inwardly he squirmed at the thought, but outwardly he maintained his military bearings, save for a few odd blinks and his fingers twitching around the shirt in his hands. The man watched as her mouth moved independent of noise for a moment, the younger woman struggling to find her words.

"--my, um..."

Anya found she could do nothing more but stand there, admiring his physique. He was _gorgeous_; she'd never seen a gear with his shirt off, but she didn't know that men could be _that _built and still be able to move as fluidly as he did. It was raw muscle that bulged beneath his taut skin, the sheer mass of his body should have been enough to make the Locust run away screaming, nonetheless with armaments and all. Her eyes lingered on his waistline-- his low-slung jeans revealed a chiseled navel, complete with a neatly groomed, curly black happy trail that stretched below the fabric.

Still, by far his most prominent feature on his entire body was the _scar_. She had been right in assuming that the one on his face was the same as that on his neck, and she traced the jagged lines with her eyes over his collarbone, down across his broad pectorals, and fading above his navel. There were other scars of course, small round ones and more slashes, but the deepest, by far, was the one that her eye was drawn to, running almost the full length of his torso, like he had been mauled, defenseless.

Her eyes drifted back up to his face, realizing he had been observing her the entire time, noticing the peculiar expression on his face. She blinked, and mentally shook herself, clearing her throat and finally managing the words on the tip of her tongue, getting herself under control.

"...my, uh, my pager..."

"Here." He said, grabbing a small black box on the end of his dresser, taking a few steps towards her, and placing it in her hands, immediately drawing away, acting casual. It was funny, the things he noticed when he was nervous, which he really wasn't nervous, just at a heightened state of awareness, similar to being on the battlefield. But her hands were practically frozen, obviously she hadn't had much in the way of warmth while she had been walking, and a pang of guilt beat across his broad chest; he should have never let her go out on such a cold night, he should have been there with her. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that no matter how tough a woman she was, not everyone had the body mass of a Gear.

"Thanks," She said, looking at the pager as she clutched it tighter in her hand, smiling to herself, almost seeming relieved that he still had it. Pocketing the mobile device in the front of her blouse, she backed out of the doorway, obviously trying to avoid looking at him any longer. "So, goodnight then?" She asked, turning hesitantly towards the hallway, and the door.

"Anya." He spoke her name with conviction, his grovelly voice alone rooting her to the spot, as she finally turned her blonde head back up to face him.

"Hm?" It was a soft inquiry, and she leaned with her shoulder on the door jamb of the bedroom, crossing her arms and legs in a skeptical pose, like he was keeping her from something important.

"Sorry if I've got my head shoved up my ass." He muttered bluntly, sharing a long glance with the Lieutenant; the haunted, unblinking stare conveying just how much he wanted to apologize. There could be no bad blood between the two of them, they had known each other for much too long, there were too many good memories for it to go bad.

Anya shook her head at the soldier in front of her, looking down at her feet. "Marcus..." She said quietly, smiling to herself. He was never particularly good at voicing his emotions, but his attempt at an apology had raised a warmth in Anya's heart. That he would try to apologize, however blunt, for her benefit, was a such soft sentiment for such a hardened man that she thought perhaps the alcohol had gotten to him after all. Yet the look on his face had been so sobering that that thought was completely preposterous.

She heard him move and looked up to find him moving towards her, closing the two-step gulf between them both literally and figuratively. Her breathing stopped as her face was met with his broad chest, and immediately she recoiled out of surprise more than anything, backing into the door jamb to find she was cornered. Finding such a fact unsettling, she had nowhere else to turn but look up, bewildered, into the face of her assailant, and her brain just simply stopped working, like a deer in headlights. Into the depths of his mad-dog eyes she was locked, his face the same blank as it always was, his large, calloused hands breaking the barrier they had unconsciously set so long ago. She closed her eyes as he cupped her jaw and brought their faces closer, her soft lips finally meeting his in an innocent, cautious, slow kiss.

"... wh-what are you doing..." She managed to whisper when he pulled away for a moment, testing her reaction to his advance. His eyes flicked open for a moment to find hers still closed, faces only centimeters apart, his hand still on her cheek, and he let himself drink in her delicate features. Her beautiful, angular face; with so many details that were lost on the screens of a JACKbot, details that he had never noticed before and _never_ wanted to forget. He didn't know how much time passed like that, their breath mixing in the small space between their faces, and he closed his eyes to just _listen_. It seemed both of them were soaking it up like a sponge, breathing the other in like they would never breathe again, just, to put it simply, _in love_.

Then he brought up his other hand, grasping the other side of her soft, smooth face with his weathered hand, and kissed her again, knowing she would not resist as he pressed her against the wall, her arms hesitantly reaching up around his neck as their kisses became more passionate and fevered, exploring, each enjoying the taste of the other. Marcus then removed his hands from her face, knowing that she would not draw away now, and let them slide down her slender frame, tracing her thin waist, her generous hips; whoever said she was a scale model of her mother was full of bullshit. He remembered the stick-like figure of Major Stroud briefly, and, though elegant, he found that Anya's figure was much more .. fulfilling. His hands came to rest just below her rear, as he grasped her firm thighs a bit roughly, lifting her straight upwards so that her legs could lock around his hips, and for once, Marcus's brain succumbed to the will of his lower half.

With her latched onto his front, he stepped backwards slowly, their lips and tongues still entwined, his hands grasping her ass almost greedily, her heavy breathing driving him crazy as a low _thud _and dull pain in his left heel let him know that he had found the bed. Sitting down, she gasped, immediately drawing away from him at arm's length, her hands pressing against his shoulders. Marcus's eyes fluttered open to see her flushed face, dark eyes wide and eyebrows raised in a silent question, and really he was puzzled-- that was, until he realized that now she could feel how aroused he was, and he raised an eyebrow, giving her a skeptical smirk that said, _What did you expect?_ He leaned forward, coaxing her gently with kisses peppered around her jawline, and he found that once his lips met hers again, Anya seemed to acquiesce, now kissing him again with more abandon, straddling his lap while his right hand worked its way up her skirt, feeling the flushed skin beneath.

She kicked off her pumps with ease, a quiet _thud-thud_ as the offensive shoes hit the carpeted floor, her hands twaddling with the tails of his skull cap and the hair that stuck out underneath, while his own moved to the front of her blouse, working down the zipper between their movements against each other, finding that the blouse and skirt were one garment zipped up together. He smiled into her kisses as he unzipped it completely, the front falling open to reveal her white, plain bra, containing her perfectly molded breasts, a taut stomach, and some rather risqué panties, to which Marcus paused their oral contact and raised an eyebrow. This time it was her turn to smirk, albeit bashfully, kissing him again. Her lips then found their way down his cheeks, down his muscled neck and torso, and he watched as she leaned down and unbuttoned his jeans, proceeding then to kiss him again, just below the navel, and push his back flat on the bed while his feet still lay on the floor, working down _both_ of his lower garments in the process so that they hung around his ankles.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as her warm mouth closed against his hard member, and … _hell_, she was fucking _good_. It wasn't often that Marcus got this kind of treatment from a woman, but he knew good when he felt it, and holy shit, Anya had to be one of the best. Her cute mouth knew just when and how to suck and nibble, her tongue touching all the right places at the right times, and he felt a growl of satisfaction rumble at the back of his throat, causing her hands to move from his knees to his inner thighs, her thumbs massaging the sore muscles near his groin.

But his brain always picked the wrong time to take back the reins. His mind whirred, wondering how innocent little Anya could have picked up such a lewd talent, and he felt the fire of jealousy flash down his throat as he thought of the men who could have taught her such a thing. Who did he know in that little command center of hers; how many men did he see every day that shot her a lusty look? He couldn't help himself as the growl in his throat turned from satisfaction to frustration, as a furious thought crossed his mind.

Had she been doing this shit to _Hoffman_?!

Immediately he reached one of his enormous hands down to her head, snatching up her blonde hair, deftly removing his dick from her mouth and dragging her roughly up to meet his face, her body sliding on top of his. She was wide eyed; surprised, startled, and in slight pain from his grip, her mouth still hanging open.

"Who the _fuck_ taught you how to do that?" He growled dangerously, deep voice still thick with arousal, but his eyes were searching her face frantically enough for her to understand he was serious.

"Um. Nobody?" She said, her face completely serious. "Marcus, you're hurting me."

He frowned, his brows knitting together, not apologizing for his roughness but appeasing her anyway, moving his firm grip on her hair to a firm grip on the back of her neck so that she would look at him properly, even though she had propped herself up on his bare chest with her forearms. He looked her dead in the eyes.

"You've never done that before."

She shook her head, indicating a negative.

"To anyone."

Again she repeated the same motion.

"What--" Marcus started, looking away from her, obviously not satisfied, unbelieving of her answers. She _had_ to have _some_ experience, women don't come out of the womb giving those kind of blowjobs, especially not if you came out of a piece of work like Helena Stroud. He wondered if she thought she could pull the wool over his eyes like that, but there was another, though not-quite-as-logical, thought nagging at his brain.

"Shit, Anya. Are--" He paused, looking away from her again, struggling with the question, but resolving to meet her straight up. "Are you tellin me, you're a fucking virgin?"

She didn't answer right away, only biting her lip and looking downwards, like an embarrassed little kid. _Shit_, He thought, knowing that expression. _She was_.

"Well, not exactly..." She said, trailing off, trying so much not to sound like the innocent little girl she knew she was, but she was telling the truth. Mostly. As a child, she never had much in the way of friends, and like hell her mother would have allowed her to date, which led the young girl to get a bit... curious, to say the least. It was then she turned to books, reading up on the things she couldn't draw on from experience or her workaholic mother, and led her to ...experiment, in her spare time. So technically, she wasn't a virgin. Not exactly.

Marcus released his death grip on her neck, giving her a knowing look, a small smile ghosting his face, the relief in his chest doing more than just relaxing his chest muscles. Her body weight on top of him brought him back to the situation at hand, and he stroked her smooth face with his fingers gently.

"C'mere you," He said quietly, leaning up to kiss her, every movement letting her know that with him, she was safe. She would always be safe.

Then they were beneath the -- until now -- unused sheets, her head laid flat on the pillow, hair spread out not unlike a halo as Marcus caressed her soft skin, placing soft kisses about her neckline and collarbone, his hot breath teasing her pert breasts, her hands running through his long, unruly, jet black hair, skullcap tossed aside like the rest of their clothes. His arms positioned her legs just so as he brought his hips up to meet hers, hearing her sharp intake of breath, feeling her back arch as he entered her, his arms now resting on either side of her head, her fingers digging into his back, like she was holding on for dear life.

He looked down at her beautiful face, knowing that every time he saw her now he would remember her this way; face flushed, breath heavy with arousal, almost writhing at the pleasure he was giving her. If she had looked up, she would have seen his normally hollow, icy blue eyes filled with more passion and intensity than she would have thought capable, but she didn't, and he leaned down to kiss her once again as he began to move back and forth against her, closing his eyes and eventually latching his mouth on to her neck. Her heavy breathing was all he could hear, interspersed with quiet moans and gasps of pleasure as he steadily increased his speed, rocking his hips faster, feeling her fingers dig in deeper underneath his shoulder blades, and maybe he himself even let out a small grunt or two of effort. Her moans grew louder as he sped up, and soon he felt her body shudder, her legs open wider as she pushed back, and he knew she was about to reach her climax, and as the thought crossed his mind, it brought him that much closer to doing the same.

"Oh, Marcus..." She breathed into his ear as her fingers dug into his back, her hips bucking involuntarily as she reached the peak of her pleasure, her actions in turn provoking his, and a low growl escaped his throat as he released inside her, straining to penetrate her as deeply as he could, thrilling as he watched her eyes roll back into her head, lids fluttering as they finished together.

Sweaty and breathing heavily, he pulled out and lay beside her on the plush bed, only to have her immediately curl up into his chest, not wanting to be out of his arms. He looked down as her with a rare, soft smile, the love in his eyes still very evident, and as she looked up at him, his arms wrapped around her tightly, he was surprised to find the same look in her own.

Sighing, she nuzzled into his chest, closing her eyes while he leaned down to kiss her hair, breathing in the relaxing scent of vanilla that seemed to cling to her body. Laying his head on a pillow, he closed his own eyes, allowing himself to sleep for the first time, without worrying about nightmares on the other side.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N-- Not entirely happy with this chapter, but it will do. Next task: Update ch. 4.

* * *

Sleep had always been a welcome thing. Anya, being the workaholic that she was, always got the short end of the stick on downtime, forcing herself awake for three days at a time, or longer with a ten or twenty minute nap. She guessed it was one of those naps she was in now, having slept like a rock for who-knows-how-long, expecting someone to wake her up any minute, telling her some catastrophe happened while she was asleep that would have been averted, had she been awake.

Sometimes, these people just got on her nerves.

In all honesty, she wished someone _would _come in and wake her. The dreams that she experienced were some of the most vivid -- and completely impossible -- that she had experienced in quite a long time. Even now she felt like she was still in them, lying in a warm, comfortable bed-- a_ bed_, not a cot-- with a strong arm wrapped around her waist, holding her tight, while the warm body attached to it pressed against her back. Whoever they were, they were sleeping soundly; a steady, raspy breathing came from behind her head, verging on a quiet snore... and it sounded suspiciously like Marcus.

Of course, it made sense; for a good part of every day she heard Marcus's breathing patterns, being as constantly connected as possible to him through the Tac/Com, and there was no question in her mind that the sound was ingrained into her brain, so it was only natural that it was his breath that she would be hearing. It would also follow from her dream-- being, of course, that she and her favorite soldier had shared a night together-- and it seemed her subconscious was still keeping up the charade.

Not that it was unpleasant, not at all; it was something that, deep down, she had wished since god-knows-when, and although that was her main drive in keeping Delta squad alive, a relationship between them would be altogether unattainable. Even if Marcus _did_ return her feelings, which she doubted, because it seemed the man was quote-unquote "emotionally unavailable" at the moment, he was still an enlisted soldier, and she was a lieutenant; an officer. Any personal relations between the two of them would be illegal by Coalition law. Now, off-duty would be a different story, and although it would be frowned upon, they had the ability to do whatever they wanted. But even then, during her rare off-duty hours she hardly ever saw Marcus, or any of Delta for that matter; It had maybe been once or twice she's even seen him outside of his armor.

And yet, there was a persisting image in her brain of him stripped buck naked, muscles bulging in the glow of a soft yellow light, like he was a sculpted god or something...

_bzzzzzzzzzt. bzzzzzzzzt. bzzzzzzzzzt._

That noise. Shit, she knew that noise. She hated that noise. But what was it? Something important. But what the hell did she have that was important? Maybe Command needed her for something. It could be her pager.

Her _pager_.

Her dark brown eyes snapped open, her body rolling a little clumsily than she would have liked out of the bed, landing on the floor with a small _thud_. She winced, knowing that she had made enough noise to possibly wake her partner, and as she lifted her head slowly above the edge of the bed, she was relieved to find he was still sleeping soundly, head nuzzled into the pillow where her neck had been, arm laid across the now-empty stretch of bed where her body once was. After her relief had passed, however, the small sprockets in her brain clicked into place, her eyes locked on the face of her lover, incredibly aware of both persons states of nudity and the faint glow of an early sun coming from the window to her right.

Ho-ly _shit_. Her dream was not a dream at all. Her dream was _real_.

She swallowed, crouched next to the bed in her unclothed state, deciding to save that fact to be digested at a later time.

_bzzzzzzzzzt. bzzzzzzzzt. bzzzzzzzzzt._

Again her pager beckoned from a pile of clothing at the foot of the bed that she quickly identified as her own, and she scampered over to the pile as quietly as she could manage, rummaging through the clothing and extracting the small, square device out of one of the front pockets of her blouse. Flipping it open while she squatted on the floor, she found that Command had called her twice in the past hour, which was probably why she had been dozing; and not only that, but a rather nasty message awaited her from the Colonel himself, and by the looks of it, he was going to go nuclear if she didn't show up within the next ten minutes.

Anya tapped away on the communicator, sending an affirmative reply, and closing the mobile device. Letting out a huff of frustrated breath that rustled the unkempt strands on her face, she grabbed the small pile of her clothing and hustled into the bathroom on the opposite side of the room, wondering how in the hell she was going to get out of this.

Immediately she was hit with the smell of a male bathroom -- the soapy smell that was reminiscent of aftershave, nothing fruity or pleasant, but nothing horrible. It was relatively plain but clean, like the rest of the apartment, the small blue tiles that coated the walls without any sign of mildew, as well as the gleaming white bathtub, toilet, and vanity. A glance at the mirror told her that she couldn't possibly become as presentable as she wanted to be; her normally straight, neat hair was matted and mussed all funny on one side, her mascara was flaky and her eyeliner had smudged down under her eyes, making her look like she hadn't slept in weeks.

On second thought, she wasn't sure how much of that actually was her makeup.

Hurriedly, she slipped into her clothing from the night before, trying her best to press the wrinkles flat so that she would look at least _somewhat_ presentable, taking as much care as possible to assure that none of the red marks on her pale skin would be too obvious while she did so, stretching up her collar to cover a particularly vivid one on her neck. As she did so, to her surprise, she saw in the mirror that her right hand was still bandaged nicely, and now that she thought about it, it didn't hurt much more than a dull ache; even though she could still see the bruise seeping into her fingers, turning a lighter purple than the previous night. The swelling had gone down considerably, and she thought it was hardly noticeable as she slipped her gloves on over the top of it.

She rummaged through the sparsely filled drawers of the vanity, finding a barber's comb that she took to her short-cropped, messy hair, wincing as she pulled out a knot here and there, finally brushing it back decently and tying it in her normal, tight bun, with a hair-tie that she had left in her pocket. In addition to the comb, which she left on the side of the sink, she found a small box of q-tips, which she used to touch up her makeup while her mind ran through the fastest way to get herself to Command.

As she had discovered the night before, it was quite a walk to the Com center, at least 30 minutes if she was speedy, so walking was out of the question. She could call someone to come get her, but seeing as it was still early morning, 0430 according to the small digital clock that was sitting on the back edge of the sink, she doubted anyone would still be awake, or willing, if they were, to come get her. She could call the Traffic Controller, Jim, and see if he could send a small transport to pick her up; they had always gotten on well and she was fairly sure the old man would have no problem doing her a little favor, maybe even keeping it from Hoffman. Yes, that's what she would do.

Dubbing her appearance mediocre, she walked briskly out of the bathroom, pausing as she looked to the bed, finding Marcus had rolled over on to his back and was now snoring openly. He looked like a completely different man from this particular vantage point, his face relaxed, not contorted into his constant scowl, his face still young despite the scars; his wild hair uncovered and equally unkempt, some of the longer strands stretching below his eyebrows. She rather liked how he was now, it reminded her of the less-tortured soul he had once been, and she bet this was the first time he had slept soundly for a lengthy period of time. She was glad, almost flattered, that he would let her see this side of him, and it made her feel that much worse for leaving before he woke.

Anya snuck out of the room, making sure she had all her things, and strode quietly into the living room of the apartment, light from the windows on the far end of the room now illuminating the room clearly, even though the sun wasn't visible yet over the buildings of Jacinto. Glancing at the time on her pager, she hurriedly found a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling a short note for her sleeping lover before she left, closing the door behind her.

* * *

It's amazing, how the slam of a door can sound so much like a gunshot at five in the morning.

At the sound of the door's slam, Marcus's eyes snapped open, his military mind going on overdrive as adrenaline fired into his bloodstream, causing every muscle in his body to tense as he descended into full survival mode. He slunk slowly out from under the bedsheets, crouching on the side of his bed and searching under the box spring for the pistol that he knew he'd hidden there.

His hand touched metal, and he grasped the .45; small compared to Boltoks they were allowed to use in the field, but sufficing as he stood up slowly, still in the nude, the cautious steps from his over-sized feet making no noise whatsoever as he pressed his back up against his bedroom wall, peering around the door opening with the gun steady in his hand, ears alert for any noise whatsoever, any indication of movement at all.

He stood there for ten, twenty minutes maybe. There was no movement, no sound, other than his hushed breathing as he peered at the living room, watching the shadows, looking for bullet holes in any surface. His sharp eyes came to rest on the door, re-playing the sound in his mind, putting the pieces together as he glanced back at the vacant bed he'd just gotten out of. _Hell_, he thought, grumbling at himself and stretching, his body creaking and cracking as he rubbed the side of his face with a gnarled hand. _That was no gun, it was the fucking _door.

He flicked the safety on the gun and tossed it on the rumpled bed, breathing out deeply ans remembering the events of the previous night as he felt his fight-or-flight panic subside. He and Anya, they had... shit, he didn't know what to call it, but it was the first time he had felt alright in a long while, the best sleep that he'd gotten in years. It had been a long time coming, really, Anya was... she was everything. There was no other word he could explain it with. But where the hell was his pretty little Lieutenant now?

Wait. _His_ lieutenant.

What the_ fuck _was wrong with him lately?

He slid into both his boxers and jeans, picking up his skullcap up from the floor and tying the piece of cloth around his head, unconsciously centering the death's head emblem with two fingers as he walked out of the bedroom, wondering why Anya had left him alone. This morning should have been different, he should have woken to her soft kisses, maybe gotten in a round of morning nookie before she had to go back to Command. If anything, she should have woken him before she left, and he could have kissed her goodbye.

He frowned as his sharp eyes fell upon a small piece of paper laid on the corner of the island in the kitchen, words hastily scrawled across it in black ink. The scowl on his face deepened as he picked up the note, reading the hurriedly formed words.

_I had to leave, I'm so sorry. H.A. gave me a call.  
Didn't want to wake you, I know how little sleep you get._

_Thank you.  
For everything._

_~ A._

She even had the nerve to draw a little heart next to her initial.

Marcus resisted the urge to crumple up the note and throw it in the trashcan, simply folding it neatly into fourths and placing it in his pocket, grunting in frustration as he walked back into his bedroom, grabbing a shirt and hastily throwing it on. He needed to go somewhere, do something-- if anything, he needed to get his mind off this damn_ girl_.

_Shit,_ he thought, grabbing his jacket off the door. _I need to find a new damn bar_.


End file.
